Overdose (translation)
by Flo'wTralala
Summary: Teen!Lock/Johnlock - Someone overdoses. Someone is fortunately passing by...


**Hi everyone !**

**Here is the translation of my own fic 'Overdose' !**

**I hope you'll like it :) It's basically a fluffy oneshot.**

**Enjoy !**

**Flo'w**

**PS : ac, since you've posted your review as a guest, I can't reply with a PM. I left a note for you at the end, I hope you'll see it !**

* * *

The long-awaited fire poured through his veins, the low pain from the syringe forgotten in a second. With a relief grunt, the young man let his head rest on the cold wall against his back, and closed his eyes. The sensation spread through his entire body, warming up his tired muscles, and he relaxed with an imperceptible smile.

The inextricable labyrinth of his thoughts turned into a clear highway. Heart swollen with excitation, his brain finally free, he sunk into his mind palace, explored the wonders he had hidden there. Boredom and routine had disappeared. Nothing could spoil the euphoria that had taken him. He didn't even feel the icy rain dropping lightly on his face.

He felt his heart speed up deliciously. And then painfully. His torso went up and down unsteadily, and he swallowed hard. All his limbs started to shake uncontrollably. His overdeveloped intellect, boosted by cocaine, didn't take more than an instant to understand.

Overdose.

XXX

John grumbled to himself when he left the university library. One more night that would see him soaking wet way before he got home. It was almost 11pm, and he hurried through the empty streets of London, leaving King's, back to the cheaper neighbourhoods where his miniscule flat stood. He couldn't afford a room in the university dorms, even with his scholarship.

He pulled up his hood, buttoned his coat, and sunk his hands deep into his pockets. The streets he walked were not among the brightest ones, and he really wanted to go unremarked. He had enough problems already.

John was turning into an alley – a convenient shortcut to his flat – when he heard it.

Low at first, then increasing in intensity up to a high-pitched pike. An inarticulate whimper turning into a moan. The young man froze, paid close attention. The whine started again, hoarse, interrupted by a hissing breath.

John walked closer to the smaller, darker alley meeting the narrow street he was in. The streetlamp at the junction was crackling, bulb in agony, but the student could distinguish the shivering contours of a silhouette sprawled on the ground. Smothering a curse, John pulled out his phone to enlighten the scene.

* * *

The light aggressed his already painful retinas. His body refused to obey him, his mind drifting toward unconsciousness. He heard words, words that might have been addressed to him, but didn't make any sense.

_Hey, are you okay? What… Oh god._

Then small beeps, and words again.

_Hello? I just found someone being sick, St John street, I think it's an OD – what? I'm a med student, I can – Oh god, hold on, he's passing out._

Words were once more directed at him, coming with a loud slap on his cheek. He barely felt the blow.

_Hey, stay with me! Here! Look at me!_

Then away again. What did it mean?

_…ambulance. Ok. Thanks._

A blurry face was dancing above his. Yeah, seemed legit. Who would wander here in the middle of the night? It was probably a hallucination. A dream. Oh, how he wanted to sleep! And the pain, the pain making him quiver…

* * *

John forced himself to keep his head clear. It was his job, wasn't it? Well, it would be in a few months. Kneeling on the rain-slippery pavement, he quickly observed the situation.

The one who had cried out was a probably a twenty-something year-old man, with black hair that was likely curled when it wasn't soaked and covered in mud. Strangely enough, he was quite well-dressed for a junkie: white button down shirt, dark jeans, and leather shoes. His left sleeve was rolled up, revealing a tight garrotte above the elbow. The crease was speckled with reddish, more or less faint stains. Next to him was an empty syringe.

John felt his stomach protest. The junkie's whole body was trembling, but his moans were getting less and less frequent, and he wasn't reacting to John's voice nor to the slap. The soon-to-be doctor flipped mentally through what he'd learned over these past years as fast as he could. _Overdose symptoms: tachycardia, spasms and tremors, quickening breath, hypertension… depends on the drug and uptake method._

Garrotte untied, John held the wrist in his hand to take the pulse, still talking in order to maintain the young man's attention – without much success. The beating underneath his fingers was way too fast. And not nearly strong enough.

"Fuck!" he swore out loud, gripping the shivering shoulders.

What the hell was the ambulance doing? Well, he certainly hadn't hung up more than a minute ago, but time had seemed to slow down, seconds crawling after each other. He leaned down towards the pale – livid, rather – face. He didn't feel any breath on his.

"Come on, stay with me, stay with me… Breathe, god, please, help is coming…"

John swallowed hard. Time to get things done. If he did nothing, the bloke was going to die. He took the back of his neck with one hand, tilted it backwards, then took a second more to concentrate and calm down the pounding of his own heart. He knew how to do this. He had been _trained_ to do it. It was basic first aid. _Okay, let's go, CPR._

Alternating mouth-to-mouth respiration and cardiac massage, John felt like an eternity was passing by. All of a sudden, a siren tore the anxious silence and the student doubled his efforts.

"They're here, come back, please, don't die..."

He breathed again into the inert lungs. And he felt something. Not much, almost nothing, but… John pressed again, vigorously, on the thoracic cage. The siren was coming closer.

"There… That's it… Come back, you're here already…"

* * *

The ambulance arrival was lost into John's hazy memories. The adrenaline and concentration he had spent to take care of the young man evaporated when the medics relayed him. One of them went to John while the others loaded the stretched into the vehicle.

"Was it you who called?"

"Yep."

"You're going to have to come with us. I need you to tell me what exactly you did to him."

John nodded and climbed into the back of the ambulance. The still unconscious young man looked even paler behind his mask, underneath the raw light.

"I found him just there, I was on my way home." John said, "He was moaning. Then I saw the syringe and understood he was probably high… I immediately called emergencies, then I untied the garrotte, and tried to keep him conscious, but I couldn't… He very quickly stopped breathing, so I tried CPR. His heart just restarted when you arrived."

"Ok, you seem to know what you're talking about."

"I'm a med student."

"Oh. What's your name?"

"John Watson."

The medic smiled.

"Well, John Watson, you probably saved his life."

* * *

John collapsed on a squeaky plastic chair in the waiting room of the hospital. The nurses had taken the young man to a room where he would be taken care of. Only patience and hope remained.

"John?"

"Mmh?"

The student opened his eyes. He hadn't realised he had drifted asleep. In front of him stood the medic who had asked him questions earlier.

"You look tired. Coffee?"

"Oh God, yes, please."

"Hard day?" smiled the man, dragging him to the coffee machine.

"Yes. I'm getting my medical degree soon and I'm awfully late on my work, so I'm already exhausted everyday lately, but right now it's even worse. I don't even know what time it can be…"

"Half past midnight."

"Really? Seems like I won't sleep much tonight. Is he all right?"

"I don't know if he's all right yet, but his state seems stable. His breath is still too weak for him to breathe on his own, but his heart has slowed down and is now steady."

John nodded, vaguely relieved.

"Do you know him? He doesn't have anything that could identify him."

"Never saw him before tonight", answered John.

"Well, looks like we'll have to wait for him to wake up. The police shouldn't take long anymore, then you can go home."

John nodded again, and then asked on an impulsion:

"Can I see him?"

The man smiled at him and gestured toward the hall.

"If you want. Follow me."

* * *

The man left him alone in the still unconscious young man's room –_ "sorry, gotta go, doctors will take over now, and you'll have to tell the cops your story" – _and John could observe him as long and thoroughly as he wanted.

Sat on an uncomfortable chair besides the bed, he let his gaze drift across the sleeping body, ignoring the steady beeps of the heart-rate monitor.

He looked so young. Back in the dark alley, John had estimated his age had to be close to his own – 25 years old – but lying here, so pale between the white sheets, he appeared less. His hair had been a bit cleaned and dried, and was indeed curled, of a very dark brown colour. It looked like he didn't take care of his hair. It was a bit too long, a bit tarnished. John furrowed his brow. Since when was he a capillary expert? Imputing his weird thoughts to the exhaustion, John continued his inspection. The young man's face was still pallid, but it seemed to be his natural skin tone. His closed eyes were rimmed with black, long lashes and dark purplish circles. The high cheekbones emphasised the hollow cheeks. His whole body was extremely thin, bordering on skinny. Though, the global picture was strangely beautiful. John was surprised again by his thoughts, but couldn't deny it. That man _was_ gorgeous. All lean lines and those lips…

Just about then, two men entered the room. Immediately recognisable with their clothes, the doctor and the policeman approached John. The first one's face was perfectly blank of emotions, but the latter heavily sighed when he glanced at the bed. John raised a brow. Did he know the junkie?

"John Watson?"

He jumped. The cop was talking to him.

"It's me."

"I've been told it was you who found him and called the emergencies. I need you to tell me what happened."

Once again John explained, and in the end the officer stroked his face with a tired hand.

"Oh god, Mycroft _is_ going to kill me…" he muttered to himself.

The doctor intervened. John was under the impression that he had already met him somewhere. Maybe had a lecture with him once.

"According to the ambulance team, and it was confirmed with the check-up, Mr. Watson here very likely saved this young man's life. If he had remained uncared of whilst waiting for the ambulance, he would most certainly have been dead way before it arrived."

"Then I can only thank you, Watson" sighed the policeman.

"I'm a bloody med student, I couldn't just leave him there dying on the street… That's what first aid is about, right?" John replied, too tired to remember his manners.

But the policeman only chuckled.

"Okay, case closed until this bloody idiot wakes up. Call me when that happens, Dr. Wilson."

"Of course, officer. Lestrade, is that it?"

"Yes. Now if you will excuse me… Watson, I believe I heard you say you were walking. Would you like me to drive you home?"

John mentally threw himself at Lestrade in a virtual hug. The very idea of walking from Bart's to his flat at one in the bloody morning was abhorring.

"I can't turn down such an offer."

Once he was in the car, John shifted nervously towards the cop, who was rubbing his own temples.

"Sir?"

"Mmh?"

"Are you all right?"

"What? I'm exhausted, and Sherlock finding it funny to overdose… that wasn't exactly missing to my day. But otherwise, yeah, I'm okay. Thanks", the officer muttered while pulling off.

"Sherlock? Is that his name? Do you know him?"

The policeman sighed.

"Sherlock Holmes, yes. I bloody well know him. And I owe you so much more than just a 'thank you', Watson, you can't even imagine."

'John, please. Why?"

"Because I'm expected to keep an eye on him, and if anything, _anything_ happens to him, blame's on me. His brother is a… a government official or something, and he insures Sherlock doesn't have serious problem with justice, but he doesn't have any influence on him. He then asked me to look after him, to maintain him busy. Sherlock is very, _very_ easily bored, and he doesn't hesitate to take incredible risks to get distracted. Cocaine is only one more method. And if you hadn't been there to save his life, John, I can't imagine what the consequences would have been…"

"Wow. Odd story." John said.

"With the Holmes brothers, you better be prepared to anything… Is that your place?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you again. Try to rest a bit, yeah? Sherlock won't fly away from the hospital."

"I trust him to be capable of doing it. Good night, John."

* * *

The next day, as John walked towards the hospital exit – where he had helped a teacher during an experiment for the first year students – he thought of the young junkie he had saved. Well, really, the thought of this _Sherlock Holmes_ had barely left him, from the moment he was awake. The story told by Lestrade was quite interesting, waking his curiosity. Almost of their own will, his legs carried him to the room where he had been installed. The visiting hours weren't over, he could… just pop by? Maybe he was already out…

John knocked on the already slightly open door, and heard the voices inside quiet immediately.

"Come in" called someone in an extremely annoyed voice.

The student slipped inside awkwardly.

"Sorry… I didn't want to interrupt you… I…"

"We had finished", retorted Sherlock Holmes dryly.

He was sat on his bed, still connected to the hospital equipment, but breathing on his own. He seemed furious.

"Sherlock, I have _not_ finished…" sighed the man standing in front of the bed.

He was wearing a well-cut striped suit and was leaning on a black umbrella. He gripped the handle with white-tight knuckles.

"What do I owe the favour of the visit of a future army doctor I have never seen in my life?"

John gaped at him.

"How…"

"Your work coat is hanging out of your bag, and there's a RAMC pin on the strap. But you haven't graduated yet, have you? Otherwise you wouldn't be working with Professor Jones – his typical smell of rolled cigarettes and cheap deodorant has gotten on you, you probably should wash all of your clothes before it becomes permanent."

"_Sherlock!_" scolded the older man, whilst the younger one looked like he was going to continue. "But he's right, what are you doing here?"

John swallowed hard. Two pairs of an eerie, too pale blue eyes were piercing him, full with annoyance and contempt.

"I'm… I'm John Watson. I found you yesterday, it was me… I was passing by so… I don't know, I just wanted to make sure you were awake and better than last night?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but his gaze remained icy.

"Why on earth would you want to know how I am?"

John pursed his lips. _With the Holmes brothers, you better be prepared to anything._ Irritated to only get disdain, he opened his mouth to reply sharply, but the other man was faster.

"John Watson? Lestrade told me what you did. I'm Mycroft Holmes, this idiot's brother", he said, extending a long, pale hand.

John shook it mechanically.

"Oh. Lestrade also told me about you" he answered, unsure of what to say.

Mycroft Holmes smiled enigmatically, making John shiver.

"I don't doubt that. Though I hope he won't always rely on you to get Sherlock's arse saved. It's _him_ I pay for that. Well, I have to go. I let you to my brother – at your own risks."

He nodded towards them, and left the room.

* * *

"John Watson. You didn't answer. Why did you come back?" asked Sherlock with his deep, curious voice.

"You guessed who I was and what I do all by yourself, can't you answer that as well?"

Sherlock smiled vaguely.

"No. Nobody comes to see me voluntarily, besides Lestrade and my dear brother. Well, except Lestrade is getting paid for it. I don't understand why you would have come on your own accord. Did my brother pay you?'

John raised a brow and sat down next to the bed.

"Nope. I suppose I came because I had never seen you conscious, and you are way more polite when in coma" he replied dryly, but his grin denied his annoyed tone.

"Polite! Dull" mumbled Sherlock. "So, are you reassured concerning my state?"

"I guess I am. But frankly, you could use rehab. You could do so much better with your life than shoot up in a dirty alley."

"What makes you think that and why would you care?"

"I care because I didn't save you for you to do it again two days later. That would be incredibly ungrateful of you. And about doing better with your life, you only have to look at what you've done earlier."

"And that is?"

"Knowing all about me with a single glance. That was amazing."

Sherlock looked utterly dumbfounded.

"Amazing? Really?"

"Of course! You look surprised…" said John, still grinning.

"That's not what people usually say."

"And what do people usually say?"

"'Piss off'?"

John laughed.

"I can understand that. But really, Sherlock. If you can deduce all these things about everything and everyone like you did about me, then you're honestly wasting your talent with cocaine. This thing damages the brain, you know that? You're a bloody genius, you could be… a detective or something."

Sherlock smiled shyly. Where did that bloke come from? Why was he so nice to him and why didn't Sherlock want to throw him out? How could he be both so ordinary and so little boring?

"That's a good idea, actually", he said. "A consulting detective. Sounds good."

John couldn't help but laugh again.

"I have to go, I got loads of work to do… Take care, okay?"

"Stop worrying about me!" Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

John stood up and casually ruffled the dark curls. Sherlock's aquamarine eyes filled with shock, and the student felt his cheeks grow hot.

"Too late", he chuckled, "guess I'm worried now. I really have to go. Good evening!"

He had left the room long seconds ago when Sherlock realised he was still looking at the door. Why did he feel so lonely suddenly? He never suffered from loneliness. He pressed on the call button, and a nurse entered his room a minute later.

"Problem, Mr. Holmes?"

He answered with his most charming smile and all the politeness he could manage.

"Could I make a phone call? Please?"

The nurse nodded. Sherlock kept on smiling. The _please_ worked every time.

* * *

Mycroft stayed silent for several seconds, stunned by the incredibleness of what he had just heard. Then his voice came back.

"Sherlock, I think this time was really too much. Your brain _is_ damaged."

"You know it's not. Are you going to refuse what I'm asking you?"

The elder Holmes chuckled sarcastically.

"Of course not. But I'd like to know where the trap is. Sherlock, why now? I've been desperately trying to send you to rehab for five years, and Lestrade has been trying as well for four."

"I just changed my mind."

Mycroft squinted suspiciously, like he could decipher Sherlock's face through the phone.

"You can't just decide to obey me for free, I don't believe that for one second. What do you really want?"

"Mycroft, I'm not obeying you. I'm taking my own decision. For myself, not to please you. I want to go to rehab, and I'm asking you to help me because I have no idea how to get there and it's already boring me."

"I will find out what you're hiding, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out an exasperated growl.

"I am not hiding anything, Mycroft, for once! I know you don't trust me, but this time it _is_ the truth. Are you going to help me or not?"

"Yes. Anthea will pick you tomorrow morning."

* * *

John spent the evening, the night and the next day daydreaming. Concentrating on his work was impossible. Shining eyes, their incredible colour dancing between blue, grey and green, swirled through his mind each time he tried to do something useful. When the professor he was helping ended the class at 17pm, John automatically walked to Sherlock's room.

He had no good reason to go there. They didn't know each other. Sherlock hadn't expressed his wanting to see John again. And yet John was there, heart pounding, in front of the door.

But when he knocked, nobody answered. The room was empty.

John grumbled his disappointment all the way back to his place, not understanding why he was so upset over someone he barely knew. But his dark thoughts evaporated when his phone beeped. He had a new text from an unknown number.

_John, I nearly spent an hour convincing Lestrade to give me your number, so you better answer me. – SH_

John's heart missed a beat, and he replied hastily.

_Sherlock?_

_ Brilliant deduction, John. – SH_

_ Berk. You're already out of the hospital?_

_ You came to see me again? – SH_

_ Yes, but you weren't there anymore. Hence my question._

_ Out this morning, and in again this afternoon – elsewhere. Why did you come again? Do you like cocaine-addict sociopaths this much? – SH_

_ I like to think the CPR bonded us. Why in? Please don't tell me you ALREADY did it again…_

_ Tell me when you're finished bragging about saving me. And for your information, I only followed your advice. I asked my brother to get me into rehab. I'm in some place in Scotland. He says it'll distract me from London. – SH_

_ Really?! … Wow. I'm proud of you!_

_ And I already hate you. It's worse than boring here. You have to entertain me, if you want me to stay for the whole time. – SH_

John couldn't hide a smile.

_How long are you in for?_

_ Six months, minimum. I arrived two hours ago and the exit is already calling my name. – SH_

_ No! Don't give up before even starting…_

_ Prevent me from quitting, then. – SH_

* * *

Soon, a routine settled between them. Sherlock spent most of his time – when he was not with a therapist – drowning John with texts, and John replied as soon as he had a free minute. He very quickly learned two essential rules: one, never ask Sherlock how he was. This kind of question inevitably ended the conversation, until Sherlock decided to stop sulking. And two, never call. Sherlock never answered anyway, saying he preferred to text.

* * *

_Bored. Distract me. – SH_

_ You're always bored. I'm not a bloody clown._

_ That wasn't funny. Distract me. – SH_

_ Why do you always sign your texts? I very well know they're coming from you. Especially when you're annoying like now._

_ It's automatic. – SH_

_ What kind of idiot sets an automatic signature for his texts?_

_ My kind of idiot, I think. If one day I get my hands on your phone, I promise your texts will end with '- JW' – SH_

_ This terrifies me._

* * *

_ John, I'm bored. – SH_

_ I know, Sherlock._

_ You needed two hours, thirty-six minutes and twenty-seven seconds to answer. What took you so long? – SH_

_ I'm working. How's the weather in Scotland? Still raining here._

_ How is weather an entertaining topic? – SH_

_ Makes you ask questions._

_ That was a rhetorical question. – SH_

* * *

_ Bored! – SH_

_ Bloody hell, Sherlock, it's 3am! Don't you ever sleep?!_

_ You're not sleeping either. – SH_

_ Yeah, thank you for that. Let me sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow._

_ I don't want to wait. I wish you were here. – SH_

John gaped for a few seconds, still somewhat asleep, unable to think clearly. They had never talked about seeing each other again in person. Their conversations had remained light, superficial until now. Sherlock wasn't exactly what you could call sentimental.

But the idea was there. John couldn't help but imagine himself with Sherlock. Was he nestled in his small hospital bed, alone in a dark room? John would sit next to him, talking softly until Sherlock's lids closed on his incredible irises…

John smiled to his phone's screen.

_I wish I was too. Try to sleep, Sherlock._

* * *

They continued to chat every day, learning to know one another, getting closer without really noticing it. John was neither shy nor introverted, and he managed to get Sherlock out of his shell. Sherlock was less open, and he was always surprised when John dealt with his tempers. Obviously enough, there were ups and downs. Sherlock still had to cope with the effects of withdrawal, and that made him insufferable – more often than not.

Three months into rehab, Sherlock's mood was murderous. According to him, everyone in his surroundings were idiots and incompetents, nothing was interesting, he missed London… Even though Sherlock never admitted it, John knew the rehab program was tough.

When the fourth month ended, Sherlock was going mad. And the big crisis _had_ to happen on the day John was graduating and finally becoming a doctor.

When he_ finally_ got out of the small amphitheatre, after the jury's deliberation, he turned his phone on, unable to wait to tell Sherlock the news. But there was a bad surprise waiting for him.

_John, I'm bored. – SH_

_ Answer me. – SH_

_ BORED! – SH_

_ I'm seriously going to escape from this place. Earlier than expected if you keep ignoring me. – SH_

_ JOHN. – SH_

_ I'm fairly certain I can break into the pharmacy. They must have morphine. – SH_

_ John, if I don't get out of this bloody hospital right now, I'm setting it on fire. – SH_

John couldn't count the texts, and stopped reading them after the twentieth. The last one had arrived only ten minutes before. Barely holding down the panic, the brand new doctor didn't bother to text his reply. Instead, he dialled the number and prayed for Sherlock to pick it up.

Miraculously, he did.

"JOHN! WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG –"

"Sherlock, stop yelling, I can hear you –"

"I'M GOING MAD I HAVE TO GET OUT –"

"Sherlock, calm down, listen –"

"I BLOCKED MY DOOR WITH MY BED SO THAT THEY CAN'T COME IN –"

"SHERLOCK! CALM! DOWN!"

"…"

Silence on the other side. John was shaking.

"Sherlock", he repeated softly. "I couldn't answer earlier. Speak to me, but quietly."

He didn't have an answer, but Sherlock hadn't hung up. John could hear his friend's hissing breath.

"Sherlock. Did something happen? Please tell me. I have all the time you want."

"John, I want to get out of here."

The sobs were barely concealed in Sherlock's voice.

"I know that. But you've already made two thirds of it. That was the hardest part. You have to hold on" John encouraged him, trying to control his tremors. Why was he so worried?

"I can't make it to the end! John, it's your fault I'm stuck here, you have to get me out!"

"No, Sherlock. It was your decision, you have to hold on to it. You know it's for your own good…"

"My own good! Never have I ever been so BAD!"

Oh. Yelling again.

"Sherlock, are you standing up?" John asked suddenly.

Momentarily caught out, Sherlock slowly answered.

"Yes. I'm trying to open the window. I want to get out."

"What?! No, no no no, stop. Sherlock. Sherlock, would you do something for me?"

"Only if you help me get out of here."

"Sherlock, if you do as I say, I promise I will help you."

John didn't add "to get out", but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"What do you want me to do?"

"First of all, stop trying to open the window. Take your cover off your bed and wrap it around you, and then sit down and fold your knees up to your chest. Do it."

He heard Sherlock shift for a few moments.

"Done."

"Now I am going to count to ten, and back to zero. You have to breathe with this rhythm. Inhale to ten, exhale to zero. Okay?"

"Why?"

"Because I can hear your breath and you're on the verge of hyperventilation. Are you ready?"

"Yes", Sherlock replied in a small, shaky voice.

John started to count at Sherlock's breath pace, and slowed gradually until he was at a calm, slow cadence. When he was satisfied with what he heard, he spoke again, whispering.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"Are you alone in your room?"

"Yes. Two doctors are still trying to enter but the door is blocked."

"Go release it."

"What?! No, John – "

"Sherlock, I'm staying with you. I want to speak to a doctor. Switch on the speaker if you want to hear. Please, Sherlock."

"I don't want them to make me sleep."

"They won't, if you open the door yourself."

"I don't want them to tie me up."

"I promise they won't. Sherlock, go open the door. I know you can do it."

"John, promise they won't touch me."

"They won't, I promise, Sherlock. Now go."

John could hear the creaking of the bed against the floor, and then the light squeak of the door. Then, blurred voices, the low baritone of Sherlock among others.

"John? The doctor is okay to talk to you."

"Thank you, Sherlock. Hello, doctor…?"

"Dr. Penn here."

"John Watson."

"Mr. Watson, Sherlock asked me to speak with you. I'd like to ask you something. Is it you who calmed him down? Through the phone?"

"It seems so, doctor."

"I'm quite impressed. Thank you, Mr. Watson. Sherlock had been screaming for an hour when you called, and none of the staff people managed – "

"I can understand that… Now, I'd like to know what happened to put him in such a state of nerves. I've been in touch with him since he's here and I never had to cope with such a crisis. I'm not blaming you, of course. It's only difficult to understand the situation, since I'm in London…"

The doctor cleared his throat.

"Before I tell you anything, I'd like to know who you are to Sherlock. I've been in touch with his brother but I'm afraid I have never heard of you."

"He's my best friend", Sherlock said in his best _it's-obvious-you-moron_ tone.

John's heart sped up. _Best friend?!_ Coming from a sociopath like Sherlock, that was an incredible mark of affection.

"Well…" the doctor started, "Sherlock is… a difficult patient. Of course, we're used to aggressive ones, but he's above that. I don't know what triggered the crisis, but I will ask the responsible of the afternoon shift if he has more information."

"Okay… Oh, beside all that, is Sherlock allowed to have visitors? "

"Well in theory, yes…"

"But?"

"But in Sherlock's case, I will have to ask for his brother's agreement."

"Could you do that as soon as possible?"

"Of course, Mr. Watson."

"Thank you very much."

Sherlock took his phone back from the doctor's hands and turned his back to him ostensibly. He couldn't believe what he had just heard.

"John, are you really going to come? I thought you were overloaded with work…"

"Not anymore. That's the reason why I couldn't speak to you earlier. I graduated today, Sherlock, I'm a doctor!"

Sherlock grinned helplessly.

"I knew you would succeed, John. When are you coming?"

"As soon as I have your brother's authorization. I'd come right now if I could."

Sherlock's smile evaporated.

"Mycroft better hurry. John…"

"Yes?"

"I didn't lie to the doctor. I meant it. You're my best friend. Well, you're my only friend, it's true, but… I'd never have managed to stay this long, if not for you."

Sherlock was surprised by the words coming out of his own mouth. When had he become so sentimental? Tears gathered in his eyes, and he fought them back. _I'm not crying, there's nothing to cry over, John's coming to see me, John…_

"I can't wait to see you, Sherlock."

They continued to talk until a bell rang, telling Sherlock he had to go to the self for supper.

"I have to go, John."

"Okay."

"Can I text you tonight?"

John chuckled softly.

"Like you need my approval to spam me. Why ask now?"

"I…"

"I'm kidding, Sherlock. Of course you can. I want you to."

"Thanks, John."

* * *

John was awaken by the insisting ringing of his phone. He glanced at the clock. Half past noon… Oh, right. He had gone out with some friends to celebrate their diploma, and he had ended more than a bit tipsy.

Oh, the phone. John picked it up just before the voicemail took over.

"John Watson."

"Hello Mr. Watson. Should I call you doctor?"

John grinned despite himself.

"You could. Who is this?"

"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. I hope you remember me."

_Mycroft?! What on earth…_

"I had a call from the rehab centre where my brother is. I've been told you are in touch and want to visit him."

Mycroft's voice was neutral, almost cold. John cleared nervously his throat.

"Yes. The doctor told me I'd need your permission."

"Considering what you've done for my brother, I think you deserve it. If convenient, my PA will pick you in an hour and drive you to the airport. Gather some clothes for a few days. Your flight ticket and hotel room on site are taken care of. "

_What?!_ John tried to focus his sleep-blurred mind.

"Rea… Really?"

"Yes, really." Mycroft said in an annoyed voice. He clearly loathed repetition.

"One hour. I'll be ready", John replied, feeling the excitement flood through his veins.

"My PA will wait for you in front of your flat. Her name is Anthea."

"Wait, you know where I live?"

Mycroft only laughed before hanging up. John jumped out of his bed, forgetting his hangover. He almost leapt in the shower, then threw some clothes in a bag. He hesitated to send a text to Sherlock, but decided to keep the surprise. Sherlock's face would be priceless.

* * *

John had been waiting for fifteen minutes in the little visiting room when the door opened. He stood up from the old, black leather chair, his arms a bit stiff by his body, his heart inexplicably pounding like he had just ran a marathon. He was just visiting a friend, wasn't he? Somebody he had only seen twice, the first one while said friend was unconscious. Nothing worth a pounding heart, really.

Then Sherlock appeared in the doorframe, and time stopped while they drank in each other's sight.

John, nervous impatience and joy sparkling on his face, his clothes still rumpled from the flight, slightly leaning forward like he was going to run to Sherlock.

Sherlock, hopeful, astonished, relieved, the jeans and t-shirt replacing his usual well-cut shirt and trousers making him look younger than ever.

Time started again. Sherlock closed the door, his whole body shaking, and next second he was holding John against him tightly enough to break his ribs. He buried his face in the short blond hair, grasping his jumper.

John circled Sherlock's waist with his arms, slowly stroking his back until the shivers ceased. It felt so natural, hugging him…

"John" Sherlock breathed, his nose still in his hair.

"I'm here."

"How are you here so quickly?"

"Your brother is very efficient."

Sherlock half-laughed, half-snorted. John leaned back just enough to tilt his face up toward Sherlock's – the git was tall – and smiled widely at him.

"You look better than last time, but still tired. And still skinny. Don't they feed you in here?"

Sherlock only grunted, but John clearly heard the "Food? Dull!" and chuckled.

"What if I ask you out to dinner?"

"In the self? If it's not enough for me, I doubt it'll be for you…"

"No, of course… When I say your brother is efficient… He got you two whole days out of the hospital, rented a car for me, and told me our week end is on him. I know you miss London but what do you think about wandering around here? I'm told it's beautiful, and since it's not a holiday season, there will be no tourists."

Sherlock's glare was so stunned John laughed to tears.

"Oh, your face… I knew it would be priceless…"

"You mean… I spend the entire week end with you? No medicine, no doctors?"

"Well, technically you'll be with a doctor…" teased John.

Sherlock finally smiled, his incredible eyes illuminated with glee.

"When are we leaving?"

"Right now."

* * *

They arrived at the hotel just in time for dinner, and as soon as they had got their room key at the front desk, they hurried to the restaurant. They feasted upon local specialties – well, John feasted, and his enthusiasm made Sherlock consent to eat a bite or two. Pleasantly satiated, they climbed up the stairs to go to bed, intending to get up early and hike all day.

The bedroom itself was very simple. Two beds, separated by a little wooden bedside table, and old patchwork coverlets. John let his bag fall at the foot of his bed, and handed Sherlock a little suitcase given by Mycroft's PA. They put on their pyjamas, one changing in the main room and the other in the tiny bathroom. Then they brushed their teeth, side by side and making faces at each other in the mirror. And finally, with sighs of relief, they collapsed on their beds and turned off the light.

Later, while the moonlight was softly passing through the curtains, Sherlock rolled on his side to face John, and saw he was gazing at the ceiling, eyes wide open.

"John, you're not sleeping?"

"Neither are you."

"I don't usually sleep much, and since I'm here it's more and more difficult. What about you?"

"I got up pretty late. Actually, it's Mycroft's phone call that woke me, and I'm not really sleepy yet. I guess it's at the hospital that it's hard to sleep? Aren't you more relaxed here?"

"A bit, but still not enough…"

"What do you need then?" asked John, turning towards him.

"You're too far" blurted Sherlock before biting his lower lip.

_What did I just say?!_

"I got almost 700 kilometres closer since this morning, isn't it enough?" John replied with a smile, as quietly as he could considering the sudden quickening of his heart rate.

Emboldened, Sherlock grinned.

"One metre remains."

John blushed bright red in the dark room, hesitated, opened his mouth to talk… and threw his blanket aside. _Who am I kidding?_ He climbed on Sherlock's bed and directly slid under the covers, facing him.

"Am I close enough now?" he asked with a tiny smile.

"Almost."

Sherlock leaned forward and snuggled against John. A few moments of shifting later, John was comfortably lying on his back, Sherlock half on him, his face buried in his neck. The blonde broadly grinned to the ceiling, wrapping his arms around him. Sherlock's hand slyly slid up John's torso to the hem of his t-shirt and hooked it, his fingertips brushing lightly at his collarbone.

"Now I'm good." Sherlock whispered.

And two minutes later he was sound asleep.

They woke up with the sun in a tangle of limbs, tightly cuddling. Sherlock opened one eye, remembered the day before in a second, and couldn't help but beam, his lips stretching to his ears.

"John", he called in a soft voice.

"You're awake too?"

"Just now. John, I want some breakfast."

Oddly, waking up in an embrace wasn't awkward. They disentangled from each other in order to get dressed and go downstairs to have breakfast before wandering into nature. After a stop at the nearest bakery to get sandwiches, the two young men followed a path marked up as an easy hike to the top of a hill.

They walked slowly, because Sherlock wasn't used to do so much physical effort, but the weather was beautiful, and they had all the time they wanted. They paused beside a small lake to eat, and laid down side by side on the cool grass, warmed up by the bright sun.

"Sherlock, if we take a nap, we won't have time to go to the top…" John said, his voice already slurry with sleep.

Sherlock didn't answer, only propped himself up and down again on his friend, entwining their legs. Before John could react, he nestled his face in his neck, pressing his lips against the side of his jaw for a second.

"I need a nap, John", he whispered.

Too drowsy to really notice the kiss, John merely closed his arms around Sherlock's thin body and drifted to sleep.

* * *

The rest of the weekend passed by the same way, with less walking than planned and more napping or just chatting while lying in bed, slotted together like two Lego bricks, dancing non admittedly between friendship and flirt.

Sunday evening arrived way too fast to their liking, and the journey back to the hospital was spent in Sherlock's sulky silence. He entered his room sighing, his mood darkening with every minute until it was time for John to go back to the airport.

Anthea let them a few moments alone to say goodbye, and John walked to Sherlock, who was very still, icily gazing through the window.

"Sherlock, please… don't be depressed, we'll see each other again soon!"

"No, at least not before an eternity. You must have signed up into army now you've graduated. Army doctor, remember? I saw it the first time we met."

John smiled to Sherlock's back, and gave in to his urge. He slipped his arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. Sherlock let his head fall down, and carefully put a hand on John's, twining their fingers.

"Well, that proves you're sometimes wrong."

Sherlock tensed.

"Wrong? Never. How?"

"This morning, while you were still asleep, I had a phone call from Professor Jones. He told me I was hired as an A&amp;E doctor at Bart's. Well, I'll have even more work than before, but…"

Sherlock pulled himself from the hug, wide-eyed. He locked his stare in John's.

"But you stay in London."

"Yes."

The blonde gave him a triumphant smile, and Sherlock couldn't help himself. He cupped John's face in his hands, leaned down and – Anthea entered the room, freezing the two of them.

"John, we really have to go." she said, her eyes never leaving her mobile phone.

"Coming", he answered, still looking deep into Sherlock's eyes. "Only two months left. You can do it", he added in a whisper.

Sherlock slowly dropped his hands to his sides, his look following John while he was walking away.

* * *

The next two months were both the worst and the best. The worst, because John and Sherlock couldn't wait to see each other again. Unfortunately, like he had predicted it, the young doctor was overladen with work and barely had any free time, and he would use it to get some sleep.

The best, because the weekend they had spent together had been full of promises, and had given Sherlock a new motivation to avoid other crises.

And they never texted more than during these two months.

* * *

_John, I'm bored. – SH_

_ I'm not. I just fixed a broken tibia. – JW_

_ Oh God, tell me you didn't set that automatic signature… – JW_

_ I did warn you, John. – SH_

_ Great. I look like an idiot now. – JW_

_ Nothing unusual here. But you're my idiot now. – SH_

_ I can't decide if I should find it endearing or offensive. – JW_

_ As you want. So, this broken tibia! Was it interesting? Did you see the bone? – SH_

_ Yep. Blood everywhere and all. Very nice. Any other morbid questions? – JW_

* * *

_ Day off! I need at least 56 hours of sleep. – JW_

_ John, I'm sure even someone as limited as you knows a day has only 24 hours. – SH_

_ I didn't say I was going to sleep them all today, you moron. Thanks for the "limited". – JW_

_ You know what I meant. – SH_

_ Yes. I'm going to bed now. – JW_

_ I wish I could come nap with you. Still can't sleep in this bloody hospital. – SH_

_ Is it the only reason you want to nap with me? Have some sleep? – JW_

_ John, don't be so thick. You very well know I don't want to only literally sleep with you. – SH_

_ Do you really mean what I think you mean? – JW_

_ What do you think I mean? – SH_

_ I think I already couldn't wait to see you. Now it's really unbearable. I NEED to be next month. – JW_

_ 27 days, John, and I will be yours. – SH_

* * *

_ Two weeks, John. I know one perceives time differently depending on the circumstances, but this is properly outrageous. My clock must have been frozen. – SH_

_ I think mine goes backwards when I don't look at it. – JW_

* * *

_ John. – SH_

_ John! – SH_

_ John, John, JOHN – SH_

_ Hey, calm down. I was at work. – JW_

_ John, I'm not calming down. Friday, 7:30pm, I'll be at your place. If you can't get your weekend off, I can ask Mycroft for a little help. – SH_

_ Friday? THIS Friday? I WILL have my weekend off. They can try to stop me. – JW_

* * *

The old doorbell rang in John's tiny flat. The young man, who had been pacing for the last ten minutes, rushed to the intercom.

"Hello?"

"It's me", announced an unmistakably deep voice.

John pressed the opening button and unbolted the door. The thin walls let him hear Sherlock was climbing the stairs four by four, and he couldn't repress a smile.

And finally, _finally_, the door slammed open. John chuckled.

"Too difficult to knock?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and grinned.

"Knock? Boring!" he said, kicking the door close before taking two swift strides to John.

He didn't wait to be interrupted – maybe Anthea was hiding, watching for the right moment – and got close enough to almost touch John. A bit out of breath, he took a second to place his hands on John's cheeks, softly, and John eyes were shining with impatience.

And finally, _finally,_ Sherlock pressed his lips on John's.

The first contact was like a spark in the dark. They both sighed with relief, breathing in each other. Then Sherlock's hands slid down to John's waist, tightening around him, while John's hand sank and tangled themselves in soft, black curls. Their lips moved slowly, relishing every instant. Eventually, John leaned back a bit, but didn't let go of the hug.

"Sherlock", he breathed, just wanting to say his name, savouring the sound of it on his tongue.

"John. I… I have something to ask you."

The blonde raised a brow, his lips still barely off Sherlock's.

"Tell me."

"Well, I… Now I'm back, I'm going back to University. I was in chemistry, but I… I kind of quit it midway through. I'm going to start over next semester."

"That's great! But it's not a question."

"John, do you think… I found a nice flat in central London, it would be perfect, but I can't afford it on my own. And I'd need… someone to keep me clean. And you clearly hate your place, so… Do you think you'd like to be my flatmate?"

John couldn't help but giggle.

"I like your way of asking. 'You could take care of me and well, couldn't be worse than here, eh?'"

Sherlock averted his gaze, his cheeks burning.

"Oh. I'm sorry… I thought…"

"Hey, Sherlock." John forced him to turn his face back towards him, and smiled softly. "I'd love it. But central London is very expensive, and you might have noticed that I'm not exactly rich. And how do you know I don't like it here?"

Sherlock's tense face relaxed slightly.

"The landlady owes me a favour, and she has agreed to lower the rent. You can afford that flat with me, I promise. And it's pretty obvious you hate _this_ flat. John, it looks like you're ready to move out. Your things are still in cardboard boxes, you have minimum furniture, and you didn't put any pictures or posters on the walls… And it's facing north, the walls are so thin you can hear the neighbours breathing and feel it when it's cold outside. I don't think anyone would like to live here, you do only because you couldn't have better. Well, now you can."

"You are amazing, you know that?"

"You're the only one to believe it."

John grinned and tugged lightly at Sherlock's curls, tilting his face up to meet his lips again. Sherlock melted in the doctor's embrace, not really understanding what was happening to him, but merely happy it _was_.

Few hours later, after some Chinese takeaway and the mysterious disappearance of their clothes, John lifted his head off from Sherlock's naked torso, searching his gaze.

"Oh, by the way, where is this perfect flat?"

Sherlock offered him a sleepy smile, his warm eyes slowly closing of their own volition.

"221B, Baker Street."

* * *

**Thank you for reading!**

**I'm sorry for the mistakes, English is not my native language. Feel free to tell me where they are so that I can correct them!**

**Please leave me a review if you liked it (or not! Then tell me what you would like me to improve!), thanks again :)**

* * *

**I'd like to thank everyone who dropped me a review ! I'm glad you liked my story and if you posted your review as a guest, I couldn't reply directly to you so... thanks :D**

* * *

**To ac : this little note is for you !**  
**First of all, thank you so, so (soooooo) much for your review! I never dared hope for such an amazing compliment about my work. I'm glad you enjoyed reading my fic!**  
**Please don't feel ashamed about my writing in English. I would've had a hard time doing this if I hadn't written the French version in the first place, and I had to google a few words, too, so there's no reason for you to blush ;)**  
**As long as you say that it's the translation of my fic, you totally have my permission to translate it to Russian! Take all the time you need though, there's no emergency. And as soon as you give me the link, I'll put it in the notes above the English and French version so that people can go read it. ****  
Do you have an account on so that we can talk by PM ?  
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